Money, Money, Money
by OrangeShipper
Summary: It's the one thing she's asked, and the one thing he can't give. As they weather ever more bitter arguments about Mr Swire's inheritance, Matthew faces the impossible choice between having to irrevocably disappoint his wife, or himself. Could he live with himself either way, and could Mary? Spec fic, with M/M spoilers up to 3x03.


A/N: _I'm not honestly sure what to say about this one! I'm posting it now as it will likely be obsolete/AU by the end of tonight's episode, but it stuck in my head so I wanted to write it anyway. :D Just one more take on how this could be resolved, and... well, yeah!_

_Thanks as always to EOlivet for her endless support and polish and beautiful story covers :)  
_

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**Money, Money, Money**

Robert sighed heavily, shifting his elbows forward onto the desk and dropping his head into his hands. He shifted them to cover his ears, closing his eyes, trying to block out the faint sound of raised voices coming from the drawing room.

He couldn't hear what they said, only the odd snatch of a phrase in Mary's tearful shout then Matthew's agitated retort back. He didn't need to hear, to know what it was about. The whole house felt as though it rested on eggshells, precariously, as if it and the people in it might tip over and shatter into pieces at any moment. The toll it was bearing on his eldest daughter and her husband simply broke his heart; no matter who was right or wrong, it was not an argument they _should_ be having in the first place; whether or not to save Downton. But arguing they were; and more fiercely with each passing week. And it was becoming increasingly difficult not to notice, through the occasional underhand remark at dinner or the sullen stares at the tablecloth when the subject of the house came up.

Earlier that morning a letter had arrived for Matthew, and he'd refused to read it, setting off this latest confrontation that, by the sounds of it, had escalated into their fiercest yet. His eyes slowly opened to see the letter on the desk still in front of him alongside other of Matthew's documents, files and letters, _Matthew Crawley Esq., _truly his son, now… and Robert sighed again in distress as everything seemed to be falling apart, just when it had all seemed so blissfully settled.

Unable to bear hearing them fight any more, the walls and the room between the drawing room and the library not thick enough to muffle their shouting entirely, he stood up. But before he reached the door into the hallway, it opened, and Cora came tentatively in.

"Do you think we should do something…?" she asked quietly, clasping her hands together and frowning sadly. "Or the whole house will hear them, it's dreadfully upsetting…"

Robert shook his head. "I don't think we can. It wouldn't be our place, dear."

"But Robert, they're going to tear each other apart if we leave them. It can't possibly go on, but I don't see how–"

"No, nor do I."

His wife stepped forwards and took his hands, and they both flinched as another angry shout echoed between the rooms.

"I'm going to go in," Cora announced at last with quiet determination. "They can't be saying anything rational like that, and at least we'll all have some peace and they can cool off to discuss it more reasonably later."

"Darling I really don't think–"

But she was already pulling away from him and walking with quick, sure steps towards the drawing room.

Within it already, Matthew stood rigid and defensively facing his wife, glaring at her in distraught frustration.

"Darling, don't you see that I _can't_ put aside–"

"_Damn_ your principles, Matthew!" she cried angrily. "If they mean that the guilt you harbour is more important to you than _our family_, if you'd let us face ruin for the sake of–"

"For God's sake!" he roared, and felt his cheeks redden in shame for raising his voice so harshly to her when he loved her so much, but the fight coursing through his veins was too strong. "What principles would they _be_ if I simply set them aside when they didn't suit me, Mary? Even for you – _especially _for you!"

The retort snapped bitterly out before Mary had a chance to think,

"Well you seemed to manage it well enough when it suited you, to let us be married at all!"

Matthew paled, and the hurt and the anger in his eyes that had never before been so fiercely directed at her terrified them both.

"How _could_ you," he bit out, his voice alarmingly quiet for a moment before it rose again, uncontrollably. "You _know_ that this is not the same issue at all. It seems you'd rather I _despise_ myself than–"

The door clicked open behind him and the shout died on his lips that pressed quickly and bitterly shut as he spun around.

"Oh I'm sorry," Cora smiled faintly, looking as oblivious as she could manage and failing miserably. Mary's tear-filled eyes and the tight set of Matthew's jaw were impossible to disguise, and cold tension flooded the room.

"There's no need to apologise," Matthew muttered to the floor as he walked quickly past her. "Excuse me, please."

The door slammed unceremoniously behind him, and Cora looked from it to her daughter, extending her arms in sympathy.

"Oh, my darling…"

Mary covered her mouth, failing to stifle her quiet sob behind her hand before her mother reached her. Her whole body, within and without, ached from the argument. The anger, the hurt, the frustration, the stubbornness, and above it all the unshakeable, encompassing _love_ for him that only made it all hurt more, left her exhausted and drained. How could they go on this way? Or more pertinently… how much longer could they, before they broke themselves irreparably?

Matthew strode through the library, still reeling, drawing up sharply when he saw Robert. He stopped, and faltered.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't thought–"

"Don't, please," Robert held up his hand, offering a small, helpless smile to calm the younger man.

"I… suppose you heard all of that. I suppose the whole house heard," Matthew said miserably. He doubted he could be more ashamed of himself if he tried, and all he could see was his darling wife's disappointed, upset, tearful expression and it was all _his fault_…

"I doubt quite the _whole_ house," Robert offered kindly, earning a small, sad chuckle from Matthew. "Look, why don't you sit down and have a drink, dear chap."

He accepted the glass of brandy, and paced behind the deep red sofa, noticing everything about the room, that he'd always thought so beautiful, that Mary must lose… because of him.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Robert watched him thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the lines across his forehead wrought by his dark frown, the distressed slump of his shoulders, his eyes brightened by anger and dulled by anguish. The remorse that seemed to flicker ever-present in the Earl's chest now burned to a bright, pervading flame, weighing on him heavily.

"Truth be told, Matthew, I feel entirely responsible for this," he sighed. "And I can't tell you how dreadfully sorry I am."

"What?" Matthew looked up sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm the one who apparently could do something about it all, only… I _can't_. However much I might want to, truly."

"There wouldn't be anything for you to _do something about_ if it weren't for my folly, my boy. And you shouldn't have to."

"But that's not the point, is it?" Matthew sat down at last, staring into his brandy. "The point is that I _could_, or… so it would seem. And I don't… I don't know what to do."

A dry sob rose in his throat and he swallowed it back, masking it with a low, wry chuckle. "It's the one thing Mary's asked of me, the one thing that is the most important to her, and I can't do it. And I feel as though I'm being torn in two, because to do as she wishes – and I _know_ it's not just Mary, and her happiness, but the entire estate at stake – would be to… forget who I am."

"Your principles make you a good man, Matthew," Robert said sincerely. As difficult as it was, he knew that Matthew's refusal was not ungracious or unkind. However hard that was to understand for the rest of them, he knew that it was not a conviction taken lightly.

Matthew only laughed, choking back another quiet, helpless sob before scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Do they? I've always liked to think so. But perhaps they only make me a stupid one." He felt helpless, and broken, and terribly, terribly cruel. Could Mary forgive him if they lost Downton, and he could have prevented it? Could he ever forgive himself if he _did_? But _Mary_… He'd left her in tears over it, he'd raised his voice to her in anger, and it crippled him with shame. He lowered his head to his hand, shoulders shaking, the fingers of his other hand tightening around the brandy glass as he tried to restrain his bitter tears. "God, I'm sorry. I don't mean to–"

"It's quite alright. Really, quite alright."

After a few moments, Matthew straightened and looked up at his father-in-law. Robert's heart ached to see him so distressed; he hadn't seen him so upset since the war, or Lavinia's death, and he'd hoped to never again.

"What would you do?" Matthew asked weakly. He was at an impasse within himself, he could not reconcile the conflicting demands of his wife and his morals. He felt helpless, and there was nothing more frustrating, and his energy to deal with it had drained. Whether asking Robert would help or not, he didn't know. But at least a fresh perspective might help, that was neither Mary's nor his.

"I don't think I can tell you," Robert said after a long time. How could he answer fairly? But it _wasn't_ fair, that was the point. He thought for a while more, desperately conscious of Matthew's searching, earnest eyes on him, before replying. "But… I would only say that I know too painfully well how it feels to have let down my family, and to live with that disappointment. And I certainly don't mean that you'd face disappointment from _me_, but… well, you know how it is. It isn't easy, Matthew. I know that you would hate yourself if you accepted the money, but… you might well hate yourself if you don't, either."

"I see."

"But," the elder man laughed in an attempt to diffuse the uncomfortable weight of his words, "of course I would counsel you that way. So you should probably pay no attention to that."

"Probably," Matthew laughed without humour. He swirled the remnants of amber liquid in his glass and drained it, pressing his lips together. "But thank you, all the same."

Robert nodded. "If there's anything I can do, dear boy… Anything at all. You will ask."

"There isn't, but I appreciate the offer." There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, and the decision – and the future of Downton – weighed as heavily on Matthew's shoulders as before. He stood up stiffly, turning back to the drawing room where he'd so angrily left his wife for only a moment, before making his way to the other door instead. Not now, not yet. She was probably too angry with him still anyway, and he needed to think.

When Robert went wearily into the drawing room, he found his wife and daughter seated together on the settee, Mary with a lace-edged handkerchief pressed to her face.

"Oh my dear," he smiled sadly, sitting down in the chair across from them.

She dabbed at her eyes and lowered the handkerchief, twisting it in her lap.

"Oh, don't, Papa. I don't want sympathy," she sniffed. She wanted… She wanted _Matthew_, and she wanted him to buck up and see sense. It broke her heart to fight with him, but she could not _bear_ him to be so obtuse. And yet… his goodness was why she adored him, his pleasant nature, his decency… But to value those qualities at the cost of everything she held dear – and if he conceded, would he truly have destroyed a part of himself? Could she ask that of him? No, their sympathy could not grant her anything.

"Did you see Matthew?" Cora asked.

"I did, and… he was terribly upset. Mary, I truly think he–"

"Papa!" she exclaimed, exasperated with him and all of them. "I _know_. You don't need to tell me how Matthew feels, I know it well enough and it doesn't make it any easier. Do you know where he is now?"

She looked stubbornly at her father, and it saddened him afresh to see how she tried to hide how upset she was. The hard glint of her eyes could not disguise the tears that glittered there, unshed.

He sighed. "He said he was going for a drive. That he needed some air, and some time to think. Which is probably a sensible idea."

Mary nodded, and stood up, still clutching the handkerchief tightly in shaking fingers as she swept from the room, to the hall, to the door, just in time to see Matthew's car disappearing down the drive in a cloud of gravel dust. She felt the ache in her chest rising, suffocating, and she leaned for a moment against the doorframe with a quiet, sad sigh before straightening purposefully. She would not waste the rest of the day by going over the argument and feeling miserable about it, there was no point in that.

Wiping at her eyes, she walked slowly back into the library. Oh, _why_ was he so _difficult_? Her eyes fell to the emptied glass on the side table, and thought instinctively of his lips touching it, and his fingers, and how they touched _her_ and… No, she didn't want to think of _that_ now, not when such feelings mingled with her frustration with him and confused her. But he was everywhere, now, his books on the side there and his fountain pen in its holder beside her father's on the desk, his files of work and… letters…

It was wrong. She was sure it was wrong, she knew it, but they were married and… _supposed_ to share everything, weren't they? If he wasn't going to change his mind anyway then the letter could hardly make the matter _worse_, and… it was truly ridiculous that he should refuse to read it. He was scared, and running away, from the fact that it just _might_ give him cause to see sense. Well, she wasn't going to let him get away with _that_ if she could help it.

With trembling fingers, Mary picked up the letter. _Matthew Crawley, Esq_. Her husband. Her darling, _stupid_, stubborn husband, who was too good for his own good. She slid her thumb under the seal and unfolded the thin paper inside, her eyes widening as she scanned down the page.

* * *

Matthew didn't return until much later in the afternoon, just as Carson went to ring the dressing gong for dinner. Matthew gave him a small nod as he hurried past up the stairs, wavering for only a moment outside Mary's bedroom before carrying on to his own dressing room as he saw Anna come down the hall with his wife's dress over her arm. He smiled; it was one of his favourites.

As Molesley helped him dress (and Matthew _wished_ he wouldn't bother, really, but it seemed… perhaps especially now… that he could hardly avoid it), he was quiet and pensive. Molesley would have been at Crawley House during the afternoon, and Matthew was grateful for it, though he imagined their argument was the hottest source of gossip in the servants' hall that evening anyway. Frustration coursed through him again, and he tried to clamp it down with a dark frown. It seemed rather too late for that.

"Thank you," he muttered cursorily as Molesley smoothed down the back of his jacket.

"That's quite alright, Sir," Molesley smiled; but it was needlessly to his back as Matthew was already half out of the door.

This time, he halted for longer outside Mary's bedroom. _Their_ bedroom, he reminded himself. Resting his palm lightly against the door, he leaned closer, able to hear her soft, low voice blending with Anna's. He sighed sadly, wondering at the disappointment in him she must fairly be expressing, and took a deep breath before knocking quietly against the polished wood.

Anna opened it, just enough to face him through the crack.

"Good evening, Mr Crawley," she smiled with her usual politeness.

Matthew smiled back but craned his neck to look past her, just able to see Mary's stiffened posture where she sat at her dresser.

"Good evening, Anna, I'd – rather hoped to speak with my wife for a moment before dinner."

He saw Mary's head turn slightly back towards him, and heard her curt reply.

"Am I ready, Anna?"

"Well," the maid said quietly, "your hair is quite fixed, Milady, so – yes, I'd say so."

"Alright, then, I suppose Mr Crawley can come in. That will be all for now, Anna, thank you."

Matthew smiled at Anna in thanks as she stepped aside for him to enter, and closed the door quietly behind him once he was inside. Mary perched with her back to him, still, dabbing perfume to her throat as he tried to ignore the brush-off that she might have denied him even the slight intimacy of seeing her dress with her maid, when he had _many_ times before by now.

"Darling," he said softly, approaching her, "you must know how sorry I am for earlier–"

"Oh, don't apologise again, Matthew. It's all you ever seem to do," she brusquely replied, turning at last to face him as she tugged on her long evening gloves.

"I only mean that–"

"I know, darling, exactly what you mean." With a gentle smile, she stood took his hands. She didn't want to fight with him again now, truly. She purposefully softened her voice. "I don't want us to argue about it anymore, and you see, I don't think we need to."

"I quite agree," he smiled. He opened his mouth to speak again, but she had carried on, before he could change the subject.

"You see – darling, please don't be cross, but I read the letter and it –"

"You… what?" His fingers tightened around hers, eyes narrowing, and she went quickly on.

"I know it might not have been quite right of me but it's done now, and – Mr Swire knew, darling. He knew of Lavinia's doubts anyway and _still_ wanted you to–"

"Mary, what you're saying is pointless–"

"_How_ is it pointless?" she cried, battling to keep the fight out of her voice, to not let this escalate again. "When it puts to rest everything you –"

"That doesn't _matter_, darling–" he ground from between clenched teeth, trying desperately not to think about the biting indignation that she'd read his personal letters without his consent.

"Of _course_ it matters! And if you're going to ignore it because you're angry with me–" She tugged her hands from his and paced away, twisting her long necklace around her fingers.

"I'm going to ignore it because it – makes no difference!" he shouted, and immediately looked sorry for having raised his voice again. But she didn't _understand_, and wasn't giving him a chance – but her crestfallen face, quickly hardening, broke his heart.

"I see," she whispered coldly, feeling fingers of ice clench within her chest.

"No, my darling, you don't." He looked desperately sad, and when he sensed that she would not come to his waiting, conciliatory arms, he sank with resignation into the armchair, talking softly to his feet. "I went for a drive this afternoon."

"Yes, I know," she snapped, her voice hurt and mocking. "How was it? Was the weather fine? Did you enjoy yourself?"

He passed his hand over his face. "Mary, please… I didn't, particularly, as it happens. But I… went to Ripon. And I thought you might like to know that I wrote to Mr Swire's lawyer, to… arrange for the money to go directly into Downton's estate. I won't see a penny of it myself and I don't want to. I suppose it will all be sorted by sometime next week."

Mary stared at him. She tried to speak, her lips parted, but no sound came from her dry throat. A desperate clamour of emotions burst into her chest and overwhelmed her, and she could not think which to give precedence to or which to respond to first. Swelling happiness, relief, gratitude, made her heart sing and fly, before it was pulled back down again at the sight of her husband's slumped, miserable posture. But he'd… _done_ it, and that meant… oh, she'd always known that he loved her, but that he did _so much_ as to… The smallest kernel of regret tried to nestle into her happiness, and she pushed it away.

She dropped to her knees before his chair, gripping his hands tightly.

"Oh, darling… Darling, do you mean it? You've really –"

"Yes, my darling, I have." He smiled sadly, stroking his thumb across her hand. "I couldn't… have lived with myself having disappointed you so dreadfully." She looked so desperately happy, and that made the weight ease from his shoulders just a little, that he would not dare to bring her down with the truth that he wasn't sure he could live with having disappointed himself, either… but he would have to try.

"Thank you, Matthew… oh, thank you!" she grinned, and leaned up to press her lips to his, unable to stop smiling. "Darling, thank you–"

Her hands slipped from his to rest on his thighs, sliding instinctively up to his waist, but he pushed himself to his feet before taking her hands and pulling her up, too.

"Well. I'm pleased you're happy, my darling." He kissed her temple and stood quietly to her side, gesturing toward the door. "But I suppose your parents will be waiting for dinner, and…"

"They'll be so pleased," Mary gripped his hand, smiling breathlessly. "Papa especially, will be so pleased… You can't know how much this means for us, Matthew. I know that you do care for Downton but – honestly, you–"

"I know. I know," he quieted her, and though his lips were still curved up in a gentle smile, there was something still not _right_. "Believe me, if I wasn't so very aware of what it meant to you, I wouldn't have. You can be quite sure of that."

For the first time, Mary's smile wavered.

"But, you were… sure?" she asked quietly. "Darling, you've given us back our _future_; you are… happy?"

"As I said, my darling, I'm pleased you're happy. Really, I am."

"Matthew, that isn't the same…"

"No, I suppose it isn't, is it."

Her smile fell completely, then, in the face of his painfully unconvincing one, and she wondered at what cost he'd bought the future she'd so desperately and always wanted.

"Oh, darling." She stroked her hands up and down his arms, stretching up to place a soft, lingering kiss to his lips as his arms gently encircled her waist. They remained locked like that for the purest moment, their breath mingling in the silence, focussed purely on the sweetness of taste and sensation as everything else seemed too imperfect, the beauty of happiness marred by an ugly crack.

"Well, it's done anyway," Matthew breathed. "And the only way I can bear it is for you to be happy, so… you must be, darling, and don't mind me. Please. Come on, let's go down."

She closed her eyes, and brushed her nose tenderly to his.

"You do know, darling… that I will spend my life showing you how grateful I am? I know it wasn't easy, I _do_ know that, and–"

"You can stop that this instant," he smiled, and kissed her nose. "I won't… have you in my debt, Mary. It's for me to bear. You're my wife, and I love you, and I won't ever have you feeling that you need to–"

"Oh, Matthew," she chuckled deeply. There was a weight between them still, something unsure, a peace still so delicate and fragile that both were terribly aware might shatter at any moment with the wrong word. But the decision was made now, and they must live with it, and be happy. They were determined to. She leaned up and kissed him, slowly, pouring every ounce of the intensity of her love against his lips. Oh, she had been angry, but she had _never_, even for a moment, not loved him… "You're supposing, my dear, that I don't _want_ to," she murmured deeply.

Her breath was hot against his lips, and Matthew trembled, allowing the warmth of arousal to soothe his heart.

"Oh, I… see."

It could only be a temporary balm, he knew. But a balm it was, and she was _happy_, and calming him with the enticing promise of intimacy and delight and love that he cherished above all and that signalled they would be _alright_… and he dearly hoped – no, he knew, surely – that they would be.

**Fin**

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A/N: _Thanks so much for reading! I found this quite hard to *end*, as... I'm not really sure it *can* end. There simply is no satisfactory resolution to their argument, which is what makes it so absolutely compelling and sympathetic. But anway I do hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much :)_


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